


Marvelous

by Killer8ees



Series: Hesitation [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Demons, M/M, Multi, Olympics, Slow Build, Volleyball, all-captain team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7035430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer8ees/pseuds/Killer8ees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(suggest you read part 1 if you haven't, but the world won't end either way)<br/>Akaashi, having failed at getting together with Bokuto as half the team so desperately wishes he would, struggles to keep his shit together in senior year of high school. As his not-yet-but-hopefully-future-boyfriend, Bokuto, moves to college and plays with Oikawa, Ushijima, Sawamura, and best bro Kuroo, it unintentionally becomes Akaashi's job to figure out a way to get Bokuto to the Olympics, and himself into university. Beyond the usual senior year angst, weird shit starts happening and Akaashi's not sure if he's just going crazy or if, just maybe, there's more to the unexplainable stuff he's been seeing beyond a bad case of sleep deprivation and unrequited love.</p><p>while it would be accurate to call this a slow build, i feel like further disclaimer is needed: believe me when i say it'll click together quite fantastically, the bread crumbs just take a while to put down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lull

Akaashi has an odd feeling about this. He wakes up with a crick in his spine and an unfamiliar ceiling. He turns, a mess of limbs next to him: tufts of hair, shirts riding up, leg on top of arm on top of other bodies. Couch cushions pulled off their structure. He frowns, the pieces still not clicking together. A table, overturned. A lampshade, across the room, whatever room he’s in. Windows streaking the morning light through the blinds onto the stranger carpet. As he sits up, he hits a beer can with his hand. He stands, more cans. Actually, a shitton of cans. He literally slept on a beer can for a pillow.  
  
“Shit.”  
  
His mouth is dry as chalk; his eyes resist focusing. Simply, he got as fucked as the room. He blinks till he sees the owl poster, pillow in the shape of a cat, the weird lamp from Bokuto’s old room, the worn-down end table from Kuroo’s.  
  
“Right,” he sighs, scrubbing his face with his hands. He looks for his jacket as bits and pieces of the night before come back—Oikawa’s new cocktail recipe, Sawamura brought the beers, Suga told them to drink water but of course no one did, Ushijima plays a mean game of flip cup. A series of surreal interactions, and he, one of the few still in high school, pulled along for the events of the evening. As he pulls on his jacket, he sees the remnants of the house-warming cake he had been in charge of getting, cake cutter still stuck in the cheap buttercream, the froth of spilled beer still clinging to the plates and the edges of the counter as it drips to the floor. Not his job, he reminds himself as he double-checks he still has the key Bokuto gave him a couple weeks ago, before the front door clicks gently behind him.  
  
  
The sun is rude. It’s too early and too bright but he has to run volleyball tryouts this weekend and doesn’t get to call in sick from a hangover. The sunrise drags its body above the horizon, over the line of trees and buildings as he makes his way over to the station. It’ll be hot today, later. For now, the early morning and late nights are still crisp enough he’s thankful for the light coat.    
  
He takes the train back to his house for a quick shower and change before heading to the high school gym early. He used to spend these days practicing with Bokuto before anyone got here, captain and vice-captain syncing up, calibrating their plans and all, but now it’s just him as his new vice-captain adjusts.  
  
He himself still hasn’t adjusted to this whole thing. Alone, he lobs balls to receive off the back wall; he serves, and serves, and serves; he would set, but he can’t do it by himself in the expansive gymnasium, glowing in the light coming through the windows. It’s eerie, here. Now.  
  
Senior year isn’t just a foot out the door, it’s half his damn body—everyone in his class has pivoted to focus on their college entrance exams, cut out every club they could, barely go to hang out with friends, let alone to college parties across the city. He knew he wouldn’t quit volleyball, already. He’s the captain now, of course he’s going all the way to the spring tournament. And he knew he wouldn’t quit Bokuto either—he tried, certainly. He avoided going to the apartment so he wouldn’t get into the habit of stopping by whenever, his first time to there was last night. But clearly, he thinks to himself, he’s kept the key. For some reason. Maybe it’s masochistic, he wonders as he tries another floating jump serve (not his best, but he gets bored practicing only his best), maybe he’ll go in one day, an unannounced afternoon, and find clothes strewn about, a woman emerge from his bedroom, his tentative steps until he sees Bokuto, the boy still smelling of sweat and sheets and sex, the sound of his heart breaking and the shatter filling his own ears.  
  
His hand hits air. He missed the serve.    
  
“Goddamnit,” he sighs as he picks up the ball.  
  


 

* * * * *

  
  
  
_Bokuto: tryouts are today right? :D_  
  
_Bokuto: omg GOOD LUCK!_  
  
_Bokuto: PICK GOOD ONES!_  
  
_Bokuto: send me a pic who makes it! i wanna kno i wanna kno_  
  
_Bokuto: tell me how onaga is omg did he stop sucking yet??_  
  
_Bokuto: jk he doesnt suck that bad but like you were a great vc, there’s no way he can compare_  
  
_Bokuto: omg shit now I miss you shit shit shit shit_  
  
_Bokuto: tell the owls i love them!!! :D :D :D_  
  
Akaashi knows he is not qualified for this job. He doesn’t respond to the texts even though he knows they’re filling his inbox as he makes the first-years run their lines, lob their serves, try their hand at their uncoordinated spikes. Fukurodani tryouts are a bitch on purpose. Almost every year, five out of their starting seven are all seniors; if they keep the pattern up, he will inevitably be picking who will become the majority of the line-up in another two years. This matters. He’s looking for instincts. He’s looking for trainability. When he says jump, no one should wait to ask how high—they should have the game sense to figure it out. (or, so he wishes)  
  
His shoulders are heavy with responsibility. His heart, as cliché as it sounds, is heavy too.  
  
_me: Onaga’s not terrible, be nice._  
  
_me: they’re okay, haven’t found another ace spiker just yet_  
  
_me: which isn’t great for our shot at nationals_  
  
He sighs, chewing on his banana during the lunch break, his fingers hovering over the buttons before he finishes off this volley of messages.  
  
_me: you’re irreplaceable_  
  
After the first round of cuts, he and Onaga sit on the steps of the gymnasium, watching the sun fall back behind the line of trees and far-off skyscrapers. The orange and yellow of the sunset looks like a hazy upside-down desert, surrealism in the sky, which backlights the thin powerlines and lampposts and trite miscellany of their suburbs. They’re trying to formulate a game plan for the rest of the term, but Onaga’s still inexperienced, resting too much on previous laurels for Akaashi to take most of what he says seriously. He knows this whole operation can’t just be up to him, but sometimes that’s what it feels like. Tomorrow, they decide to show up at the gym an hour early to strategize further. Akaashi knows, inevitably, he’ll be there an hour before even that.  
  
_Bokuto: HEY HEY HEY!!!_  
  
_Bokuto: THANKS AKAASHIIIIII :D_  
  
_Bokuto: Kuroo says no shit :P lolololol_  
  
_Bokuto: pix pix pix pix pix_  
  
He sighs as he takes the familiar path back, walking his bike against the hum of street lights like he always does.  
  
_me: Kuroo is full of shit so don’t take what he says seriously_  
  
_me: there are 2 i like_  
  
_me: sucks cause we want like 6 total_  
  
_me: I’ll send a pic after final rounds_  
  
He locks his bike up as usual. Takes off his shoes. Grabs the remnants of leftovers before going to his room to start up some test prep even though it’s a weekend, even though school still has no homework. Tomorrow they’ll do more drills, send more boys home disappointed. The next day, they’ll have a whole new team. The next term, he’ll have a new tournament to plan for. The term after that, he’ll have exams and then a shiny diploma. Consider his consciousness split: he is simultaneously stuck in the wind’s gust of current, and watching it ferry the clouds. He is wading in the water, and watching it from shore. He considers himself not not overwhelmed.  
  
_Bokuto: Akaashiiiiiii :(_  
  
_Bokuto: uggggghhhhhhh fine :’( :’( :’(_  
  
_Bokuto: Kuroo says make sure it’s a cute one_  
  
_Bokuto: I told him my team is always cute, so no problem there lol_  
  
He watches the moon creep up in her usual cycle as he puts his notebook and worksheets away. He finds himself caught in the same patterns: another class, another team. The same walk home, the same equations to study. Everything, too, in its cycles. Predictable changes, it’s as unfamiliar as it is boring.  
  
He frowns. Akaashi’s got an odd feeling about this.  
  


 

* * * * *

  
  
  
Bokuto’s not in the starting line-up at Todai, but he’s on deck. Sure, Akaashi’s disappointed but he’s not surprised. Universities have four years to draw from, not just three. They have kids who’ve already gone to the Olympics, people who could go professional right now without a second thought. Even Ushijima isn’t a starter, that’s how bad it is. So when during their usual texts, Bokuto tells him University of Tokyo is up against a shittier team so the new recruits can get a chance to play, it’s his job to make the inevitable happen.  
  
“It’s important the new team can see the caliber we strive for at Fukurodani,” he explains, bowed in front of Coach Yamiji and Suzumeda. “In order to pull them together into a coherent force, I request we take the bus we use to tournaments to go see Bokuto’s game.”  
  
“What day?” Coach asks, arms folded and giving nothing away.  
  
“Next Thursday evening.”  
  
“Coach, we don’t have a game until Saturday,” Suzumeda offers tentatively, “it’d be no trouble to take it out that night.” She’s good at what she does now, no longer the timid freshman hiding behind Shirofuku all the time. Still, she’s only just carved out her space here as team manager in her own right.  
  
He nods, slowly. Akaashi knows that means there’s a catch.  
  
“200 serves each.”  
  
Easy.  
  
“Five minutes of suicides every day until then.”  
  
Ouch.  
  
“Three laps of dives every practice.”  
  
Shit.  
  
A pause, as Coach remains unflinching.  
  
“Yes. Thank you very much.”  
  
Maybe he is a masochist after all.  
  


 

* * * * *

  
  
  
The bus ride is, of course, especially raucous even for the 12 high school students. Unfortunately the old gang can’t come via official school property now that they’ve graduated, so Konoha, Washio, Komi, Shirofuku, and Sarukui are left to their own devices, though they promise they’ll each do their best to make it. Who would want to miss Bokuto’s college debut?  
  
When they do finally make it, thankfully with no accidents though it was touch and go when they drove through Toshima, navigating the campus becomes another ordeal that takes time Akaashi isn’t in the mood to waste. They get to the actual sports facilities just a few minutes before the match is supposed to begin, and Akaashi feels like he is literally herding owls for this.  
  
The court, itself, is expansive. Universities certainly have a lot of money to throw around into their sports facilities these days, the whole team is wowed by the scale. The dome of the athletic courts rounded with their huge steel beams, and their bright lights, stark on the players. It’s all state of the art, they all know. They get decent seats, filing in dutifully, all of them still in their practice gear, drying from the sweat of earlier that day.  
  
“Do you think Bokuto’s going to be the ace in this game?” Onaga asks, arms folded as he leans on the railing and watches them set up the nets.  
  
“Who knows? Since they’re all new players on this team, there might not be a real ace yet,” Akaashi replies as he pulls out a couple of granola bars.  
  
“There you are!”  
  
Akaashi is startled for a second, before it clicks and he recognizes the voice. He watches Konoha, Komi, and Shirofuku sidle up to the rest of the team—it’s odd seeing them in casual clothes when everyone else is in a volleyball uniform.  
  
“How’s the new team going, Akaashi?” Shirofuku asks, breaking off a piece of his granola before he can protest and snacking away.  
  
“You found good replacements for us yet?” Komi laughs, and shit, Akaashi realizes how much he missed them all.  
  
“They’ll do for now,” he says, eating his own piece now. “Give them another year and I’m sure they would’ve beaten the old team from last year.”  
  
“That’s some confidence you’ve got there, Akaashi!” Konoha says, or half-yells as he usually does. “We wouldn’t go down so easily!”  
  
“That’s some confidence you’ve got there yourself.”  
  
“What are you trying to--?”  
  
And then the whistle sounds.  
  
All of a sudden the two teams jog out from behind the court divider where they were warming-up, coming to line up on the backlines. Immediately, he sees Bokuto. He looks different in the blue and gold uniform. He looks different when he’s not #4.  
  
“Shit, that’s what university students look like,” Onaga says under his breath next to him.  
  
He was annoyed before and he still is now. “We played half these people last year, get over it,” he says unkindly. He’s not in the mood for naiveté, not with this feeling in his chest.  
  
At first, Bokuto doesn’t see them all as the teams go through their perfunctory bows and go to their starting positions. Akaashi relaxes at the familiar sight of seeing him on the court now that he’s a starter again, even if it is only a freshman team.  
  
“Ushijima’s number is lower than his,” Konoha says, narrowing his eyes. “Are you kidding me? What the hell is that about?”  
  
“It could mean nothing,” Shirofuku reminds him, “But if it did,” she trails off before swiping Akaashi’s second granola bar. “Well he was ranked higher for longer, I’m not surprised if they hedged their bets,” Shirofuku says.  
  
“But Bokuto’s better. Like, he just is,” Komi offers.  
  
“You remember what he was like before Akaashi got there,” Shirofuku sighs. “Maybe he’s not anymore.”  
  
He frowns, “Bokuto can make it without me.”  
  
Shirofuku glances at him, gives a skeptical hum but doesn’t say anything else.  
  
It’s Ushijima’s serve, and even though Todai’s all freshmen, the other team jerseys all have low numbers on them—they sent their regulars. Bokuto said they’d be fine but Akaashi feels his stomach do a flip when the whistle sounds again, starting the match. There’s something too familiar about this and yet too wrong.  
  
Shirofuku pokes him in the ribs and he yelps.  
  
“You know,” she looks at him, unimpressed (apparently he was making his serious face), “Oikawa’s basically the best setter there is. He’s not going to screw someone on his team.”  
  
“Yeah, but,” he doesn’t know where he’s going with this. “He just—I mean.” Shirofuku stares at him, patiently. “I just realized, I’ve never seen him play a game where I wasn’t the one tossing to him.”  
  
Another whistle. The ball goes up, and then—  
  


 

  
  
  
Bokuto, on his own, is quite good. The whole team really does think he’s better than Ushijima, but they’re not exactly unbiased in this area. The first spike Bokuto gets in, they all go fucking nuts. They chant his name and bang their paper cones, and of course, he’s got to look over. Akaashi doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him smile bigger than that. Their eyes lock a moment, Akaashi gives him a single thumbs up in the pregnant pause of the game. He smiles brightly again, and sends a thumbs up back at him. Then the whistle sounds again and he’s back at it.  
  
This time, Akaashi is the girl in the stand who thinks Bokuto is cute. How the tables have turned. Shirofuku pokes him in the ribs again and he squirms. (he’s got to stop making that serious face)  
  
The first set goes to the other team, but everyone can tell they’re still finding their groove as they play. Oikawa clearly doesn’t like tossing to Ushijima, though he gradually eases into it more and more. Bokuto is more all over the place than he would be with Akaashi, he notes, but Oikawa’s tosses are consistent enough to help make-up for it. The Fukurodani encouragement seems especially to be working, as he nails a bitch of a left cut during the second set that even Ushijima probably wouldn’t be able to make. Akaashi knows Oikawa’s not as accommodating to Bokuto as he is though and it’s stopping the spiker just short from hitting his peak. After taking the second set, all the old Fukurodani team (even Onaga) can see Bokuto isn’t at his apex; he’s not the ace anymore.  
  
  
  
  
  
“You know how some people just have like,” Komi wonders out loud as they file out of the gym, Todai of course took it home in the last two sets, “they just have like a punchable face? I feel like that’s Ushijima, I really think that’s his face.”  
  
“It’d be a shame if something were to happen to him,” Konoha says not subtly at all.  
  
“That’s Bokuto’s teammate,” Akaashi reminds them, “if you’re mad that he got more tosses, then get mad at Oikawa.”  
  
“Yeah, but I was just noticing,” Komi says. “Punchable faces do exist, even if they’re not the ones that should be punched right now.”  
  
“Hey assholes,” Shirofuku says as they leave the sports facility, congregating outside as they wait for teams to exit too and congratulate them all. “Instead of screwing up their chances of playing again, how about we get hot pot after this?”  
  
“Hot pot this time of year?” Konoha asks.  
  
“It’s the last good chance we’ll get before it gets too hot out!” She protests.  
  
They settle into easy conversation, and Akaashi’s happy these things haven’t changed. Even Onaga, once the quiet freshman, has grown surer in his skin and speaks up now. It’s nice to see the situational friendship grow into more.  
  
When the team comes out, there’s cheers and hugs and even though the new Fukurodani recruits don’t know him personally, they’ve all heard of Bokuto Koutarou, the Great Owl of Tokyo who almost took the national trophy to their little school, and are in awe. Akaashi, for once, lets him just enjoy the attention as they each bow and introduce themselves, shaking his hand in turn. They know they’ve got big shoes to fill now, Akaashi’s made sure of it.  
  
“Seems like he’s put on a little more muscle since last I saw him,” Shirofuku notes, suddenly beside Akaashi.  
  
“Really?” He asks, playing it cool.  
  
“Oh please,” she rolls her eyes, “don’t act like you didn’t notice the second he came out in those volleyball shorts.”  
  
There is no lie.  
  
After the usual pleasantries and catching up, there’s quick introductions to the rest of the teammates Fukurodani doesn’t know as well: Ushijima stands discerning and formidable (not in the mood to mingle with random freshmen now that he’s in college), while Oikawa ingratiates himself immediately and flirts with Shirofuku for a second, Sawamura good-natured as always as they make conversation, and Kuroo giving Oikawa a run for his money and flirting with Shirofuku and Suzumeda and really Akaashi has never wished cat muzzles actually existed more than now. Eventually the team decides to get rest after their first university game, while the Fukurodani alums go to get food in Tokyo proper.  
  
“I’ll join you guys for a second, then I’ll head to bed,” Bokuto negotiates after much prodding from Konoha.  
  
“Then I guess the team will head off, we’ve got practice in the morning too,” Akaashi says off-handedly.  
  
“Wait,” he looks over, “You’re not coming?”  
  
“No,” he blinks.  
  
“Wait why not?”  
  
“Bokuto, he’s captain, he can’t just ditch his team,” Komi cuts in.  
  
“Oh shit right,” Bokuto says, the rusty gears in his mind slowly turn and click into place.  
  
“So I’ll head back on the Fukurodani bus and see you later—“  
  
“Hey hey hey, let’s hang for a second, I haven’t seen you in like forever! I can head to food after!”  
  
Shirofuku and Konoha both give him a look, and he considers killing them both. Konoha, he doesn’t give a fuck about, but Shirofuku’s stare is especially piercing and he’d do better to heed it today.  
  
“Fine,” he sighs, “but I won’t keep you long if you’re going to a restaurant after. You’ve got practice in the morning too.”  
  
The groups disperse: Coach drives everyone back to the school to head to their respective homes, hot pot is had for the alums, rest is had for the team. Bokuto and Akaashi go walking off somewhere, making their way back from the sports complex to the Todai main campus. Even at this waning hour, the sky above them holding its reddish hue around the edges where the light pollution eats away at the stars.  
  
“How is it being on a new team?” Akaashi asks as they wind their way towards the quad, the decorative pathways pulling them this way and that as they lazily wander.  
  
“It’s really weird,” Bokuto sighs, eating Akaashi’s last pack of granola bars. “I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve been on an all new team, you know? Five people changing every year is easy, this is just weird.”  
  
“Yeah but you’ve known most of them before, at least a little. And you’ve definitely played with Kuroo before.”  
  
“Playing with Kuroo is probably the best part,” he agrees. Then frowns, “but some of them kind of give me the creeps.”  
  
“Like who?”  
  
He makes a face and Akaashi can’t help but burst out laughing.  
  
  
  
  
  
“So, what are you thinking after this place?” Akaashi asks as they sit on the steps of the large library, settling as they stare at the stars, the lawn, the few students still shuffling between buildings at this hour.  
  
“Go pro,” Bokuto shrugs.  
  
“You think you can?” Akaashi asks, wondering out loud. Despite his usual sass, he doesn’t mean the question to be sarcastic.  
  
“Yeah! I’m gonna be the ace of this team too! And last year the ace went to the Olympics and like he’s gotten endorsements and everything.”  
  
“I thought Ushijima was going to be ace,” he says before he can think better of it.  
  
“What?”  
  
Ah fuck. “Well,” he turns to look at him now, “he was basically in the ace position for this game, you realize.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Ah shitfuck. “Like we were all kind of disappointed because we thought you should be in it, but the ball went to him more often in the second and third sets.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Sigh. He’d rather an emotional meltdown instead of this line of questioning. “Yes, Bokuto, really.”  
  
“But, I’ll be the ace later.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“What?" He asks, still not getting it, "why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
Akaashi breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. There are certain things he doesn't exactly miss with the new Fukurodani team. “Bokuto if you want to be the ace," he explains in a measured tone, "if you want to go to the Olympics, you can’t just say you’re going to do it, you have to just do it and take it from Ushijima. Because right now, from the stands, it looks like the coach was grooming him to the ace. And if he is, it’s just going to be harder for you to usurp him and be ace later.”  
  
Bokuto nods, slowly, and Akaashi gives him time to figure it out for himself now.  
  
“Shit, so what do I do? I mean, I’m better than him, right Akaashi?”  
  
He shrugs, “Well I think so.”  
  
“Yeah! So what do I do?”  
  
Akaashi sighs—he’s just a high school student, what does he know about the intra-team politics at University of Tokyo of all places.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Yeah, but what do you think?”  
  
He looks at him, and Bokuto’s got those expectant, earnest eyes. The gold of them still picking up what little light there is out here, impossibly shining in the night. Akaashi can’t say no to those. He doesn’t know how.  
  
He fidgets with his fingers, staring at the ground and tearing at his cuticles as he considers the possibilities, “Ushijima’s a consistent spiker, and you’re good even when you have a shitty set, you think on your toes, but sometimes you literally forget how to hit a cross or a straight, Bokuto. And Fukurodani is happy to support and accommodate, but I get the sense Todai is a lot more like Shiratorizawa—every man for himself.”  
  
Bokuto nods, focusing in on Akaashi. He’s simultaneously unnerved by how well Bokuto’s paying pinpoint attention to him, and relishing in it. “So,” Akaashi continues, “you need to get more used to pep talking yourself from time to time. Or like, be versatile in other ways. Even if you can’t hit a cross that time, you need to hit the straight that can get beyond them. Which is power and strategy and accuracy.”  
  
“But I already have a lot of that.”  
  
“Yeah but so does Ushijima. So,” Bokuto’s still focused and Akaashi feels so lame, giving advice as if he knows shit. “Let me,” he hesitates, “let me figure it out. Can I email you tomorrow or like over the weekend or something? Let me figure this out. I’m not doing a good job explaining it right now.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah sure.” Bokuto nods, then smiles. “Definitely! Thanks, Akaashi.” He pulls him into a hug before he can stop the thing, and shit, it is true Bokuto put on more muscle than he was expecting. Akaashi tentatively hugs back, both of them smelling of dried sweat, the polished floors of the gym, the rubber of the volleyballs. It’s painfully familiar. It’s painful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we all know someone with a punchable face. i promise.  
> thanks for indulging me and letting me set the atmosphere, now we can have some fun.


	2. Agitation

Akaashi spends Friday after practice rifling through all the old Fukurodani volleyball binders hidden in the back of their locker room: notes from previous captains, plays that worked (and failed miserably), letters from past coaches to their successors about the character of the team, and (most importantly) technical training and conditioning regiment plans. He takes the most helpful ones home with him for the weekend, and once they win their game Saturday morning, he heads home immediately to get to work with his sticky notes, highlighters, even stealing some of his sister’s gel pens so he can color-coordinate his annotations. He takes the best parts to the library and checks out whatever sports medicine books he can get his hands on. It’s not that he considers himself obsessive when it comes to his projects, but he’ll be damned if he’s not thorough. This is his belated graduation gift to Bokuto, he thinks. It’s the least he could do. With his glasses on and pen hanging out his mouth, he scours under the overhead lights at the biggest wooden desk he could find, his papers strewn about like an owl’s nest, until a polite yet stern librarian comes by to kick him out. Unfortunately for her, he shows up on Sunday to do it all over again. Unfortunately for him, eventually the sports medicine books, the actually useful ones not the basic shit that just catalogue common sense any athlete knows, stop making sense. A series of biophysics equations that don’t click in his mind, a set of chemical compounds he’s never heard of before. He heads to the science section.  
  
“And that’s why,” he explains to his thirteen year old sister, as she eyes him from the foyer while he takes off his shoes by the doorway, his backpack clearly filled to the brim with books, “I needed all of these.”  
  
“You do realize Dad expects you to get into college, right?” She sits on the stairwell in the foyer, arms crossed as she scrutinizes his choices, “you do realize you’re not going to play volleyball for the rest of your life, right?” Her blunt bangs cut a sharp angle across her face, making her look more serious. She’s honed her stern persona in order to survive in the terrors of middle school, but he knows her better than that.  
  
“Surprisingly, I am aware, thank you,” he deadpans, hauling his bag in, hoping the straps won’t break before he can get it up the stairs.  
  
  
He finishes his homework and prep worksheets around midnight that evening. He would love nothing more than to go to sleep, his brain has been working on overdrive the entire weekend, but he promised Bokuto he’d get this to him by the end of the weekend, so he’ll be damned if he doesn’t. He rubs his eyes before putting his reading glasses back on, firing up his laptop with a yawn and typing till the wee hours.  
  
  
_Bokuto: HEY HEY HEY_  
  
_Bokuto: omg thxxxxxx akaashiiiiiiiii :) <3_  
  
_Bokuto: omg ur the best!!!_  
  
_Bokuto: can u come over some time and go over it w/ me?? Kuroo wants to check it out too but idk wat all the things mean lolol_  
  
It’s a start, he thinks as he checks his phone on the way to school the next morning, the bags under his eyes particularly bad today. He fudged the training plan here and there, educated (or naw) guesses throughout, he’s got all his errors numbered in his mind. He considers it a poor first draft.  
  
_me: yea, let’s do Wednesday_  
  
_me: Can you guys come to the Fukurodani gym?_  
  
_me: Kinda tired, don’t want to go all the way to Todai after practice that day_  
  
He’s too much of an enabler, giving into too many of Bokuto’s requests and pesters and accidental obstinacy, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss them both. He doesn’t want to fall out of touch just yet.

 

* * * * *

“Hey hey hey!”

Akaashi’s just dribbling the ball, bored and alone as he too often finds himself, in the high school gym. Bokuto and Kuroo don’t bother knocking; they know Akaashi left the door open.

“Just fucking around alone? Is that what you do in bed at night too?”

“That wasn’t as good a joke as you think it was, Kuroo,” Akaashi says, tossing the ball at his head.

Of course he catches it easily, but Akaashi can still fantasize about the black eye he would’ve gotten if he hadn’t.

Bokuto sets down his gym bag, taking in a deep breath and stretching his arms out, an owl relearning his wingspan in a new space. “Hey hey hey! I missed this!”

Akaashi hums in response, heading to his own bag. He pulls on his Fukurodani jacket, his glasses, and his notebook, looking like a young coach himself as he flips to the right pages while Kuroo and Bokuto both, also, get settled.

“Start warming up like you guys usually do, then I’ll walk you through this,” he explains, picking up his usual pen and making extra annotations.

“Sounds good!” Bokuto says as they both take off on a warm-up lap, slapping him on the shoulder as he passes.

Akaashi bristles and Kuroo throws him a smirk for that reaction. He has no clue what he’s doing, but as he watches them pass on the first lap around the gym, he can’t say he’s not excited.

 

If herding owls was hard, herding owls and cats is maddening. Both of them care, certainly, but now it’s translating his plans, his calculations, his points A, B, through Z, into actions. It’s an issue of perfect practice—if they can’t get the angle of their knees right, the rotation of their shoulders, the optimal speed of their approach, then fuck it. All of it has to click together seamlessly.

 

“Akaashi, can you just toss to me like normal for once?”

“The point is to get used to shitty tosses, not mine,” he says without looking up from the notebook.

“My tosses are not shitty!” Kuroo protests just as Akaashi lobs him another ball that he sets quickly (shittily).

Bokuto grunts, frustrated, but sprints to approach the net nonetheless. “Elbow in!” Akaashi calls out just as his left hand reaches out, cutting the shot from the farthest left of the net to the far right on the other side.

It’s strong, but nothing special right now. Adding power is the easiest part though, as far as Akaashi is concerned.

“Ushijima’s left handed, so you should get better with yours too. You don’t have to be ambidextrous, but you shouldn’t be afraid to use it,” he explains, making another annotation.

“Yeah I get that!” Bokuto calls out from the other side of the net, “but what I don’t get is why you can’t be the one throwing me the tosses!”

“Because you need to get consistent with other setters, you were barely consistent with me,” he shoots back.

Bokuto gasps, and collapses on the floor.

Dramatic to the end.

 

“Oh shit, looks like you broke him Akaashi,” Kuroo chuckles, dribbling a ball while he waits for this latest episode to end.

One thing Akaashi has always appreciated is that Bokuto doesn’t get angry at criticism. Sure, he gets depressive over stupid shit, but just because he’s dumb and emotional (one might imagine he is dumb because he’s emotional, but no, he’s simply both at once) doesn’t mean he’s disrespectful about it. If anything, that’s his issue. He cares too much what everyone else thinks.

Akaashi stretches under the net and taps Bokuto’s hunched shoulder, curled into a ball on the ground, with his foot. He’s annoyed at how the volleyball shorts ride up Bokuto’s thigh. He’s fucking pissed that he noticed those muscles. “Come on, that’s why we’re working on it. Now I know you’ve been working on your spikes at Todai, you were texting me about a new technique you learned there, are you gonna show me or what?”

Bokuto emerges from under his own arms, frowning up at him like a petulant child.

They stare at one another for a moment, daring the other to make the first concession.

Akaashi turns away. “Kuroo,” he ducks under the net to get to the bin of balls, “come on, I know how to change up one of the exercises to help you with blocks.”

“Sweet,” he says tossing his back in.

“W-Wait!”

Akaashi resists the urge to smile. Some things just never change.

 

* * * * *

 

 Soon enough, it falls into a routine, and Akaashi’s quite glad for it. Wednesday quickly becomes the optimal time—not many tournament prelims for either of them happens smack in the middle of the week, and they can usually budget the time to get out to Fukurodani. As important as freshman year of university is, they all understand Akaashi’s in a more difficult position here, balancing everything and still playing mini-coach, it’s best if they can come to him. The waning afternoons as the sun goes down later and later, the golden light dripping like honey through the windows, bouncing off the high ceilings and polished floor of their gym, even as the heat grows and the summer opens in full bloom, he likes spending it, sweaty and stuffy as it is, with them.

 

_Kuroo: ayyyy hope u don’t mind were bringing friends this week_

Akaashi frowns, he didn’t realize this was some clubhouse shit.

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever been to this gym before,” Oikawa says, standing in the entrance with Kuroo and Bokuto and Sawamura just as he receives the text. “You guys have a decent set up here.”

He breathes in the nose, out through the mouth. The summer air shifts in his lungs and he pretends it’s actually a grounding feeling.

He turns, offers a half-wave (mostly at Bokuto and Kuroo), before flipping his notebook open. He’s been doing his research now that they’ve settled into a routine. He has his own gel pens now (his poor sister finally got fed up) and he has his citations and systems. He still doesn’t know nearly as much as he wish he did, but he can fake it, even with these other ex-captains. He knows his shit.

“What? No Ushijima?” He asks off-handedly as they’re warming up, stretching on the floor in a series of limbs and angles while he sits on the steel bench beside them.

“No.” Oikawa is curt and their gazes all linger on him a second before letting it go.

“So,” He asks, changing the subject, “to what do I owe the pleasure today, of all days?”

“There’s a small tournament next weekend,” Kuroo answers, bent at the waist with his legs out, “and I mentioned Bokuto and I have been going to your little bootcamp and these two stowaways invited themselves. Thought it was best to give you a heads up while we were on the train.”

“Actually, Kuroo,” Sawamura speaks up, “Bokuto was the one who said we should come along. It’s not as if we just followed you randomly here.”

“Yeah!” says Bokuto now, “but that was after Oikawa invited himself!”

“If you thought I was going to miss out on a chance to improve before a tournament, you’re mistaken,” Oikawa fires back with a shrug, like it’s obvious.

“The only reason you want the extra practice is because Ushijima didn’t like your sets last practice,” Kuroo mentions.

“Ushiwaka doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Oikawa scowls.

“Not that it’s my business,” Akaashi sighs, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, his eyes have been getting more tired more often with all the test prep and homework and research he’s put up with, “but seeing as you weren’t actually invited to this by me, how about we cut the drama for the next two hours and just get to it then.”

“Aww Akaashi,” Oikawa starts in an insufferable tone and really, Akaashi’s patience is wearing thin, “would you rather we talk about your drama then?”

They lock eyes. Oikawa with that terrible smirk, a curve of lip where he’d rather put his foot and  kick in his teeth right now, and Akaashi with his usual deadpan, giving nothing away with his passive demeanor.

He’s got better shit to do than take the bait today, though.

“Sawamura, Kuroo,” he looks over at them, “you’re on the net. Bokuto, start on the backline.” With a nod, they’re off, glad to be rid of the tension.

“Oikawa,” he stands just as the boy gets up from the floor and dusts his shorts off. Again, they lock eyes, not so much a hostile stare-down as much as taut truce. “Don’t fuck this up for yourself.”

Then he, too, goes to join them at the net.

 

* * * * *

Akaashi has seen the movie Fight Club.

Sawamura and Oikawa become fixtures in their little group now, but he notices Ushijima and the other freshman teammates still haven’t attended, which makes him think they don’t exactly go talking about it after every practice. And while Coach wouldn’t mind if he and Bokuto used the gym after hours, he’d rather not have to explain what the rest of them are doing there, as if he himself is running some bootcamp out of Fukurodani’s gym without administrative permission (which, he admits, he’s not not doing).

He notices what they’re doing is, well, not not Fight Club.

And so what was supposed to be a simple training plan he forwards along and forgets, becomes an odd little pet project of his. His routine is simple: practice or conditioning in the morning, school, practice in the afternoon, homework when he gets home, followed by test prep, followed by extra reading on the sciences around sports medicine. His father checks his test prep worksheets each week to make sure he’s keeping up—if he misses a week, that’s it. He’ll be sent to a cram school in the evenings which he knows will kill any extra time to work on Not Fight Club (as he’s dubbed it in his mind).

 

Akaashi is tired. Today, he finishes his exams to round off his first term as a high school senior. Both Kuroo and Bokuto have been texting him all day, wishing him luck, but he can’t be bothered to read any of them. His shoulders are heavy as he sits in the grey stairwell, his tie uncharacteristically loosened as he feels hot even in his summer uniform. He would much rather just fall asleep here—head against the unforgiving wall, ass on the rubber-covered concrete—than bike his way home right now. Tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll have his third Fukurodani Group Inter-High Summer Training Camp. He loves it, certainly. But he still can’t will himself to stand.

“Akaashi!” Suzumeda calls him, standing at the top of the stairs.

He hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t turn to look.

“You’re wanted in the teacher’s lounge,” she says, heading down till she’s standing right next to him. “I don’t think you’re in any real trouble or anything, but it seemed kind of urgent.”

He hums in consideration—he memorized so many vocabulary words his brain isn’t really interested in formulating any right now—and stands.

“How did you do on your exams? Are they going to tell you to quit the volleyball team?” She asks, her voice rising with concern.

“I have no clue,” he says as he scrubs his face with his hands, trying to wake himself up, “I was too tired to check test results.”

“Do you want me to run and do it quickly?” She asks, trying to be helpful to her senior.

“It’ll be fine,” he shrugs, swinging his backpack on and heading down the hall, “Might as well just see what they want and skip the speculation.”

The teacher’s lounge is standard as far as teacher’s lounges go. Dated computers dot the various desks pushed together to form neat corridors. The instructors pace, back and forth, with cups of tea and coffee and a constant stack of papers under their arms. The walls are an awkward pink that is as offensive as it is boring. A student is crying on the other side of the room as they go over their test results. Another student is tightly gripping their post-graduation form, explaining why they still can’t decide what they’re doing next. He is, altogether, tired of this too. He notices Suzumeda didn’t say which teacher wanted to speak with him, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out.

“Akaashi!” his math teacher calls out, waving him over as his bald spot picks up a shine from the harsh overhead lights. Perfect timing.

“So you’re in the highest college prep class,” he starts, lighting a cigarette that Akaashi really wishes he wouldn’t, “and you’re still on the volleyball team?”

“Yes, sir. I’m captain this year.”

“Okay, okay,” he nods, digging out a paper from his overgrown stack. “You did quite well on your exams, you know?”

“Thank you, sir. I hadn’t gotten a chance to check the postings yet.”

He chuckles, the ashes starting to dangle from his cigarette, “That’s a shame, you missed the best part: the gloating!”

Akaashi absent-mindedly picks at his nails as he waits for his teacher to reveal the point of this whole conversation.

“Anyways, you know, with your scores—have you been taking a university prep class outside of school or anything? Done the practice exams and stuff?”

“Yes, I’ve been keeping up with it, sir.”

“Good, good,” he nods, flicking the embers into the ashtray on his desk, sweat collecting on his upper lip from the heat of smoking in the summer. “Because if you do as well on those exams as you did on these ones,” finally he retrieves the paper, his eyes flicking over it quickly but purposefully, “yeah, just what I thought—if you do as well as you did this term, you could go to a top college with scores like these.” He hands him the paper and looks at him properly now, “You want to go to a top school right? You’re not going to try to run off to Kyushu for some stupid adventure, you’re going to invest in your future, right?”

Akaashi looks over his scores, only a bit surprised but still quite pleased. “I was hoping,” he hesitates. “Yes,” he agrees,” Yes I was planning on a top school, sir.”

“Where were you hoping?”

It feels silly to say it out loud, presumptuous even. His scores are good, but no one’s are that good. He doesn’t want to jinx it, but his teacher continues looking at him expectantly and eventually he caves: “I was hoping to go to University of Tokyo, sir.”

The teacher nods, taking a long drag off his cigarette before setting it in the ashtray a moment. “Yeah, well that’s not entirely surprising, of course. I think anyone would love to go to Todai.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re sure you still want to continue with volleyball?” He raises a thick, bushy eyebrow. “If you’re serious about getting into University of Tokyo, you know I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence as your teacher if I didn’t tell you that could hurt your chances. I mean, you can’t get complacent about these exams, there’s no such thing as studying too hard for them, and I say that even after seeing your scores you know.”

“Yes, sir,” he says with resolve, “with all due respect, there’s no way I’m quitting volleyball this year. I’ve already decided to continue through the Spring Tournament and I’ve got a study plan in place already with that accommodation made.”

His teacher picks up his cigarette again, thinking. The rumpled shirt is collecting sweat in all the unseemly places even as they sit in the stream of the open window. “Do your parents know?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do they approve?”

“No, sir.”

“But your mind’s made up anyways?”

“Definitely, sir.”

He takes another long drag and then nods, seemingly satisfied. “We’ll probably have this conversation again before the entrance exams—even if you just take a break for a month or two, it could make a real difference. Your team will understand, you know.”

“Thank you for the advice, sir,” he says, trying to placate so he can just get out of the sickeningly stuffy room.

“We tend to send a couple students to Todai every year, but we’re no feeder school. Promise me you’ll take this seriously, alright? Out of anyone,” he glances at the scores again, “you’ve probably got the best shot this year. Don’t get in your own way.”

Akaashi nods, his chest feeling warm and brimming all of a sudden at those words. “I won’t, sir.”

A final nod, then he shoos him away with his empty hand, “Now get home and get back to studying.”

He nods in return, “Thank you, sir,” as he stuffs his score report into his backpack and heads out of the furnace that is the teacher’s lounge in the summer.

 

 

Shit, he thinks as he unlocks his bike. _Shit_.

“I could go to Todai,” he repeats as he grabs his helmet. “I could go to the University of Tokyo,” he says as he pockets the key, feeling the spare Bokuto gave him months ago. “I could do it.”

He swings his leg over and starts off biking home, speeding through the usual streets, repeating to himself he, Akaashi Keiji, could actually get into the University of Tokyo if he wanted.

When he arrives home, he’s still spiked with nervous energy, his fingers feel imprecise as he hangs his bike up inside. “I’m heading out for a run, I’ll be back soon,” he calls out, lying without even really noticing, as he heads back out the door. His family trusts him enough that it’s fine even if no one heard him, even if he gets home a bit late. This evening, for once, everything is still as the term ends. His parents allowed him a day off from test prep to make it through his exams, and the training camp is tomorrow anyways. He has one evening. One set of twelve hours. He decides to make it count.

He tries to walk to the train station by his house, but instead he can’t help but break into a sprint as he burns off this anxiety, this excitement, this energy. He makes train connections without thinking—he’s bursting at his own seams over this news. The clack of the train over its inconsistent tracks, the jostle of passengers and bodies pressed against his, he can’t feel any of it—only his heart threatening to beat hard so hard his chest breaks.

He’s climbing the stairs to Bokuto’s apartment and he has no idea how he got there. He is running on pure adrenaline now, fishing the key out of his pocket with unsure hands, for the first time hearing it click in the lock, tumblers pressing just right as he opens the door. He enters, his heart in his throat, in his ears, he doesn’t know, and—

 

It’s empty. The lights are all off, and the blinds are all down. Even the microwave’s usual digital clock is off the kitchen, the only light from the waning sun in the doorway. He sighs at the stillness, suddenly all his energy going from excitement to an unnerved anxiety. He knew he should’ve called or texted or anything ahead, and now he’s going to seem like a creeper. He stands just beyond the threshold deciding whether to wait or leave right now, picking at his nails as he considers the many options, when the door clicks behind him before he notices.

“Shit,” he curses in the pitch dark. He fidgets for a light switch he could’ve sworn was right by the door, but can’t seem to find, groping the wall in the blackness. After a minute, he gives up and is about to reach for his phone when he sees it, in the corner of his eye.

Two gold eyes, glowing, somehow, even in the pitch blackness.

“Bokuto?” he asks before he can stop himself, still on edge from everything. The figure approaches, just as he pulls out his phone and flicks it on, the screen illuminating his face and the thing in front of him:

It’s a woman.

Her hair is the lightest blonde, elegant as it falls completely straight down the line of her neck, reaching long beyond her waist. Her eyebrows and eyelashes, too, share the same translucent shade against her golden eyes, and Akaashi’s brain doesn’t know how to respond: she’s totally naked. The angle of his phone allows the light to graze her nipples, highlighting their pertness, and he does his best not to stare, but she’s staring at him.

Then she walks towards him, and he feels the air sucked out of his lungs. He means to utter an apology, let himself out, be anywhere but here right now, walking in on her, but he’s fixed, incompetent and immobile.

“Akaashi!” the light flicks on.

Bokuto stands in the doorway of his room, surprised to see him there. His hair is mussed, poking in a variety of directions, wearing only a tank and his boxers.

“I—“

He looks back, and the woman is gone. He notices Kuroo’s door is slightly ajar and he imagines, maybe she went in there. Maybe, hopefully, potentially she was the remnants of a one-night stand he had. Maybe—

“Hey!” Bokuto smiles as he comes to greet him, “Sorry I kind of assumed it was Kuroo when you came in since I hadn’t seen him since the team party last night. Guess he’s still out though.”

Shit. _Shit_. Shit. Shit shit shit.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to—“ his chest is tight, “didn’t mean to come over unannounced, I just—“ his lungs start to kick into overdrive, “I’m just gonna head home, sorry.”

“You just got here—“

“I don’t really feel that well, it’s—“ he feels like he’s dying, “it’s for the best.” He finishes, cliché and lame but he has to get out of there. In an instant, he’s out the door and rushing down the stairs.

He feels like he’s having a heart attack even though he knows, clearly, that’s not what’s actually happening. But before he can talk himself down, he’s sprinting out, cutting through the University of Tokyo campus proper to make it to the train station quicker. In the back of his mind he registers he’s heading to Kenma’s, someone who knows—at least somewhat—what this feels like, someone who won’t beg explanations he can’t give. If he goes home, he’s just setting himself up to crying in his pillow all night or something equally stupid, so he—

His arm is caught. He turns, and sees the grip on it. The hand, connected to none other than Oikawa.

“Oy,” he says, holding onto him firmly but not painfully tight, “where are you off to in such a hurry?” He’s half-smiling but Akaashi can’t parse it right now. His brain can hardly answer that question.

“There—“ his lungs are still pumping at a hummingbird pace, his chest the worst kind of flutter. “I’m going—I’m heading—“

“You know you’re crying, right?”

He touches his free hand to his cheek and sees Oikawa is, in fact, correct. “Oh.”

Oikawa sighs, as if he were long-suffering from Akaashi’s shit (he’s just being dramatic). “Since you helped me with practice, I’ll help you with your emotional constipation,” he says as he lets go of his arm, starting off in another direction, “Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spooooopy.
> 
> i think writing Akaashi's anxiety attack at the end kinda fucked me and my anxiety up a little woops.


	3. Ebb

  
Akaashi’s face still feels raw and puffy, even now. He’s intently studying the salt and pepper shakers on the café table, avoiding eye contact with Oikawa at all costs. He feels so lame, crying over a boy. He has volleyball training camp tomorrow morning. He has exams to prepare for. He has real shit to do.

Oikawa takes his time looking over the menu even though they’ve already received their drinks, lengthening the awkward silence as long as possible. It’s a late-night spot, and he can see the various couples on their Friday night dates, sharing milkshakes and cakes at the other tables. He’d rather just be in bed crying right now, he thinks.

Oikawa slaps the menu down, startling him to attention.

“So, I can imagine on my own why you might be running through campus crying like a middle schooler, but I figure it’s better to ask and get the full story,” he looks up at him with a smile, “So, what’s got your feathers all ruffled that you went crying through campus like a middle schooler?”

He looks away, much more interested in his napkin than Oikawa’s eye contact. “The short version,” his voice sounds odd in his ears, “the short version is there was a girl in Bokuto’s apartment.”

He blinks. “Seriously?” Oikawa asks like he’s about to burst out loud laughing, “you saw a girl in Bokuto’s apartment and just lost it?”

He takes a deep breath, steadying his words, “She was naked. And Kuroo had been out all night, so—“ he shrugs, aware of how lame the reason sounds.

“Oh,” He says, somewhat understanding now, “Oh so you thought they were fucking, is that why you’re a mess?”

Akaashi just nods.

“Well they’re not,” he shrugs with a smile, “so dry your eyes, I know for a fact Bokuto is not fucking anyone right now.”

“Well she wasn’t there for Kuroo,” he says, defending the position only so he doesn’t look too much like a fool.

“Are you sure you even saw a girl there?” he arches an eyebrow, “Are you sure you’re not, I don’t know, so dehydrated from practices you’re going to pass out and die or something?”

He nods, staring into his green tea. He ordered it to calm his nerves but can’t bring himself to drink any of it, he lost his appetite back at Bokuto’s apartment when his stomach dropped out of him. “Definitely,” he says as he swirls it gently, without purpose, “I know what I saw.”

Oikawa sighs and takes a long, obnoxious slurp from his milkshake. “In that case,” he says as he picks the cherry of the top and snaps it up, lulling it in his mouth for a second before finishing it off, “maybe she’s Kuroo's weirdo ex, or a friend just crashing there a night. Because, again, I know for a fact Bokuto is not with anyone and hasn’t been all semester.”

“And just how do you know that?” He tries to speak in a measured tone but he can’t take the bite out of it.

“Because he told me.”

“When?” Akaashi asks quickly, taking the bait this time. He’ll rebuild his pride later. Right now, he’s raw and Oikawa already knows it.

“Truth or dare, at the last volleyball party.”

He looks out the window again, the tension in his shoulders dissipating some. Bokuto is too honest for his own good normally; he would be the last person to lie especially in a childish game like that. By now the sun has started to set in Tokyo proper, and he watches the Friday nightlife emerge like an animal from its sleepy afternoon. The neon signs blink on, the rheum rubbed from their eyes. The sunset matches the vibrant purple and red of their chemical glass. Men and women in eveningwear and club outfits alike shuttle their way up and down the street outside, once in a while stopping to kiss under the jagged arcs of buildings and storefronts. He should be so lucky, he thinks.

“So,” Oikawa continues, “What are you going to do about it?” He asks, “or is running through Tokyo sobbing your new MO now?”

“Nothing,” he says simply.

Oikawa stares, hard. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“I was fine before and I’ll be fine now,” he explains (mostly to convince himself). “So,” he shrugs.

“I disagree,” Oikawa sits back, folding his arms, and the red leather of the booth squeaks underneath him, “if your version of fine is staring at his ass all practice and then losing your shit at the potential he, a perfectly single and eligible young man, may be having sex—I seriously worry for your sanity.”

Well, Akaashi can’t exactly argue with that.

“I—“ he has no idea where he’s going with this. He tries to collect his thoughts but he keeps drawing up blanks, “there’s nothing to do. I have to get into college, I might actually get into University of Tokyo on my own, with my grades alone. And if I do, then of course I can figure out how to date him or something but,” he sighs. “If I don’t, then that ends it, right? I go to some random university hours away and never have to worry about it again.”

Oikawa grunts in response, unconvinced and beginning to get annoyed with him now. “Don’t pull the distance card with me, Keiji,” and Akaashi bristles at his cavalier attitude but doesn’t correct his senior,

“Iwaizumi and I are four hours apart and we still make it work. If you really wanted this, you could have it.”

“Is Iwaizumi your--?”

Oikawa just shrugs and Akaashi doesn’t know what to do with that.

“The point is,” he says, changing he subject, “you’re making excuses, and I thought you were the straightforward one here.”

“You were the one who called me emotionally constipated so I don’t know why this is surprising,” he says, finally drinking his tea. Slowly, he’s starting to feel more like himself, the usual defenses resetting themselves, his personal iron wall rebuilding.

Oikawa rolls his eyes and finishes his own drink with a maddeningly loud slurp, “Is Todai the goal then, for now? Are you just going to shut up and study all your senior year? Sounds more like a dog than an owl to me.”

Akaashi doesn’t bite this time, sipping his tea for a moment instead, “I’m going to run my team and get into university, and that’s where the attention goes. Bokuto can fuck, or not fuck, anyone he pleases in the meantime.”

“You’re precious,” he gives a low chuckle and Akaashi doesn’t trust it for a second, “Spending a whole year avoiding him in the hopes you two fuck later? Quite the martyr you’re making yourself into, Keiji.”

His eye twitches. Oikawa is, indeed, smug about it.

“What happens if you don’t get in?” he continues, licking the remnants of the milkshake off the straw, “Is it still worth it? To not to see him then?”

“Yes,” Akaashi answers, defensive now.

He looks up at Akaashi, really look at him, and quirks a quiet, knowing smile, “Really?”

At first, he holds the eye contact, sure in his words. The gears in his head whirl as he seriously considers the course of action now.  
  
Finally, he looks away.  
  
Oikawa smiles again, “So—“  
  
“I don’t know,” he makes eye contact again, his usual dispassion dissipating, “I have no idea, I’m just a high school student trying to get into university like everyone else. My teachers are all upset I’m not quitting volleyball, I can’t focus on Bokuto too. I literally can’t do it, so right now, Oikawa, I don’t know if any of this is worth it. But I have to change something and this is all I can think of.”  
  
With a huff, he picks up his tea again, draining the cup in his exasperation. He looks out the window again, eyes going everywhere but Oikawa’s. The sun has slipped entirely behind the line of skyscrapers and he wishes he, too, could hide.  
  
Oikawa watches him for another minute, unconvinced but understanding. For a moment, together, they watch the sun finally wane.

 

* * * * *

 

Akaashi doesn’t know how to break the news to Bokuto, but the Summer Training Camp distracts him, at least in the beginning, from the stress of the situation. As all the teams arrive and take up residence in Fukurodani’s facilities, he goes through the old motions, packing the same thing for the past two years, falling into the same routines—the only difference is now he showers first. The familiarity, unfortunately, gives him time to overthink his situation.

Usually, after the first day of their round-robin matches, he would be playing pick-up games or at least working on his own conditioning. Instead, he sits on the steps of the closest school building, far enough away from wandering eyes and questioning underclassmen. He drafts message after message, “it’s not you, but,” “I was just thinking,” “what if we.” The cicadas and grasshoppers have all come out in the balmy evening, and he remains—staring up at the sky once in a while in defeat only to return to the task.

He hears footsteps, vaguely, but doesn’t look up. Next to him, Kenma sits down, pulling out his DS.

A few more moments pass before Akaashi speaks over the white noise of crickets and far off balls hitting backlines, “I’m trying to take a break from Bokuto. I haven’t sent the message yet.”

Kenma glances over at him, but doesn’t say anything.

“He’ll probably understand, I mean—he’ll take me at my word. But I don’t want him to blame himself,” He says, re-reading his latest terrible draft.

“Are you trying to not have feelings for him with this?”

“No,” he sighs, “No I know that’s not realistic. But things are hectic right now, I can’t keep this up. Hence, a break.”

“So tell him that,” Kenma says simply, still not looking up from his game.

Akaashi sits, watching him for a second. They’re not exactly confidants to one another, but he appreciates they can sit in these silences, waiting for the answers to come instead of sucking them out of one another. This is how Kenma offers his support. He sighs, watching the sky for a moment, watching the grass ripple with the intermittent wind, the breeze petting it, thick like an animal’s fur.

“Fine,” he decides, typing a message quickly and sending it before he can think twice. “Just fine.”

 

Bokuto doesn’t respond until the next day while Akaashi is in a match. He feels the phone buzz in the pocket of his track pants, but clearly he’s busy. Karasuno’s putting up a good fight today, but they’re still working out their kinks now that their usual glue, their third years, have gone. Fukurodani didn’t give them a single set last year when Bokuto was captain, and Akaashi doesn’t want to start now.

 

He checks his phone after, once Karasuno has started their penalty runs.

 _Bokuto: Akaaaaashiiiiii_  
_Bokuto: ahhhhh k_  
_Bokuto: k i get it_  
_Bokuto: but like miss you :(_  
_Bokuto: :( we can still text tho ???_  
_Bokuto: even if we cant hang out??????_

Akaashi lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He’s known Bokuto for years now, of course their friendship would be able to weather this. He just needed to see it with his own eyes.

 _me: yes_  
_me: yeah for sure_  
_me: yeah miss you too_

He feels like the worst for doing this, but he bites back the urge to say “nevermind,” to say “just kidding,” and stick to the plan with Bokuto, for once.

 

* * * * *

 

Maybe he is making himself into a martyr, he wonders. Maybe he’s trying to prove it’s something real, if his feelings can weather more than half a year without the boy, then maybe they’re worth the struggle and the stress of the past. Worth his future.

At night he dreams, and never before has he felt so pathetic. He never really remembers the details, but he doesn’t have to. He knows what they’re about. When he wakes, he could have sworn Bokuto was just in the room, just stopped out to get water down the hall like their late night study sleepovers. His body waits for a weight in the bed that will never come back (was never there to begin with). Is that love? The distance is different now that he’s doing this officially, now that he’s named it outright. He finds his eyes chasing shadows when he’s not careful; his ears search for the familiar click of shoes, a pace of step he hasn’t heard in weeks, at school, at practice, at the convenience store, everywhere boring. On Wednesdays he hesitates leaving the gym in the afternoon, an extra five minutes that disappear before his eyes and he never knows why he gets home later that day over the others. Is that love? Being the one who waits, even when you’re not supposed to?

The stem between them stretches, and he watches it grow thin, withered on purpose. What will bloom there? What can? The unripe flesh of fruit, strange and skeletal flowers, bitter leaves. This is the dumb shit that occupies his mind when the moon is high. Is he dreaming, or just thinking it? He can’t tell the difference anymore. Is that love? Not a thing that lives at home but slithers into the spaces left, the absences that still hold possibility? Is that love? Akaashi doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a damn thing.

At least he hasn’t cried over him again. The melodrama might kill him.

 _me: I hope he does end up dating someone_  
_me: I know he probably won’t, but I hope he does_

_Kenma: ?_

_me: I just want him to enjoy college and shit_

He texts Bokuto about mundane things; the digital air between them shifted in a way he can’t explain. Kuroo and Tsukishima aren’t actually back together, but they hook up whenever they find themselves in the same city. (Tsukishima gets in trouble one evening at the training camp for not being in bed by curfew that day). Bokuto’s going to do humanities. Akaashi’s going to apply to science departments. Both of them have good practices, the ball hitting consistently exactly where they want, and shit practices, their still-awkward teenage limbs betraying themselves. He spends the break with other high schoolers, people his own damn age. He and Onaga actually become friends. His father ends up enrolling him in the cram school just for the break, and he practices long into the evenings after. The summer is extinguished before he knows what to do with it, and all that’s left is the sweet smoke of autumn. The fireflies and cicadas buzzing around in his face give way to crisp red leaves, fluttering their way into his hair. Ready or not, the tournament season comes.

He appreciates the change of pace. Without the lull of summer, he feels more himself, focusing his energy for something productive beyond his terrible rumination, beyond his self-exile. They go to Nationals in the beginning of the Fall and come up shorter than he’d hoped. They’re knocked out in the quarterfinals and yes, he is mad about it. Of course, he doesn’t show it to the team, but he fires off a series of frustrated texts to Bokuto anyways. He gets his annoyance out there so he can be productive in their practice right after. Todai happens to be in a match that night too, and Bokuto actually gets to play (as a sub, but even that is a big deal for a first-year). He congratulates him, of course, but he’s ashamed at how perfunctory his sentences sound.

 _Bokuto: HEY HEY HEY THXXX_  
_Bokuto: it was awesomeeeee, they put me in for this sweet play!_  
_Bokuto: & some others, but this 1 was like SO COOOOOL_  
_Bokuto: ahhh i saw the results!!!_  
_Bokuto: same thing happened my 1st year remember?_  
_Bokuto: i totally told u about it 1 time_  
_Bokuto: ahh sucks but you guys did so good!_  
_Bokuto: kuroo just sent me the replay they put the video up already_  
_Bokuto: AKAASHIIIII_  
_Bokuto: ur last set was insaneeee!!!!_

He doesn’t deserve this. Akaashi wants to crawl up inside himself and never leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit shorter than the others, i have a lot of thoughts. i think time-jumps are my weakness, i get caught up in poetics whenever i do them. this chapter was a bit indulgent.  
> everyone's fucking everyone except bokuto and akaashi and that's the problem. (jk they can not fuck if they don't want to)  
> i'm 7 hours away from my hometown for the first time looking at apartments right now and i'm not ready to grow up.


	4. Flow

The Spring Tournament, he tells himself, will be better. He knows Bokuto is going into his own season, and even though he’s still not a starter, he is one of the first on deck. Some matches Ushijima is swapped in before him, but not every time. He’d be lying if he didn’t say he was proud of the results their little bootcamp achieved.  
  
As training for the tournaments ramps up, their texts become more and more infrequent till it’s a once-a-day affair. They fall into a clockwork cycle that feels like a chore, like an old married couple performing their civil duties. He reminds himself this is what he wanted. It doesn’t make it better. Eventually, it’s every other day.  
  
Akaashi cruelly flirts with the idea of stopping by to see one of Bokuto’s matches, just to watch him play again, just to remind himself Bokuto is, in fact, made of flesh and bone and not just a bot in a chat window, but the timing doesn’t work out. Their matches are on top of on another all Saturday and Sunday. It’s a rude joke, he thinks, that it happened that way. Coach announces at the beginning of Monday practice that the team is expected to eat, sleep, and breathe volleyball that whole week before they go into the preliminary qualifiers. It’s Akaashi’s personal goal for Fukurodani to be the first in the preliminaries and go into Nationals at the top of the bracket. Last year, second place was solid. This year, he’s hungry for more. He dares not jinx it, but that’s what’s going on in the back of his head. They ramp up conditioning and run every weird play, every last trick, every trump card they have up their uniform sleeves, getting as close to perfect as they can. Maybe he has something to prove, that he is better off with less Bokuto in his life. Maybe he’s being stupid.      
  
_me: Good luck in the matches this weekend_  
_me: I’ll watch the replay as soon I can_  
_me: but I’m sure you’ll be great_  
_me: !_  
  
He adds the exclamation point awkwardly. It hangs at the end, like the edge of a cliff. He hopes it sounds more sincere with the mark the end, but just who is he trying to convince here?  


 

* * * * *

Through some great twist of fate, Bokuto, Oikawa, and Sawamura are on the court at the same time.  
Oikawa’s a bit on edge about the whole thing—putting so many freshmen on the court in a tournament game is overdoing it a bit, he thinks. Their upperclassman already secured the first set, and as they’ve slowly been subbed in, the points have climbed.

“We can take this, just keep doing what we always do,” Sawamura says from right behind him, and goddamnit it’s weird having a bunch of ex-captains on his team right now. Oikawa doesn’t need the pep talks, but he catches himself giving some too from time to time—old habits and big egos are all hard to break.

 Over the course of a few rallies, Coach adds the rest into the rotation, first Ushijima, then Kuroo: he puts all the freshmen to the test. They’re only a handful of points away from ending the match, the goal, they all know, is to just not fuck it up. No one wants to fail and be benched all over again.

If Sawamura and Ushijima are anchors, moors to keep their little boat steady and afloat, Bokuto is consistently inconsistent—he is the tempest that requires the anchor points in the first place. Just barely, it works. The other team hasn’t been able to pin his moves down just yet, leaving him to score more points than Ushijima. He reminds himself that’s the ace’s job, of course. Score the most points at the necessary moment.

The ball floats up with the set, and Bokuto feels like this is the one. From the backline, he starts his approach. He jumps, a bird of prey, born for the kill. The other team doesn’t even register the spike till the ball has blasted in the far corner, gone spinning up to the audience, flying high. A middle schooler catches it when it comes back down to earth.

The court is silent for a second.

The referee picks his jaw back up and the whistle sounds.

 

* * *

Akaashi got a shit receive from Onaga, but he can still pick up the set. This year, they’re the ones up against Nohebi and he doesn’t like it. He refuses to let them play their polite cards, this time. It takes time to ingratiate the referees so they’re on your side. He wants to shut them out before that happens.

Now, he thinks, is the time. Three spikers approach for a synchronized attack, their arms swing back like a set of perfect metronomes as they prepare for the jump, just as he reaches for the ball. His quick fingers compensate for Onaga’s indiscretion and then—

He dumps, not a movement wasted, not a damn thing given away. The ball’s already nudged over by the time they realize, and the snakes all scramble. One freshman on their team tries to dig and punches the ball instead, sending it directly at Akaashi’s leg.

“Shit,” he mutters more on reflex than anything else. As if he wasn’t smiling, pretty fucking pleased with himself just now.

 

* * *

“Gotta hand it to you,” Sawamura chuckles, at Oikawa’s side for this rotation, “when you pulled a dump on us last year, it always pissed me off. Being on the other side of the net, I’m happy for it.”  
  
They’re trailing this new team for now. They lost the first set but are digging themselves back up in the second, finally tying it up. If they can make it to twenty first, they can steal this quickly. And if not, then they’ve got a lot more work to do. For whatever reason, Coach kept the freshmen in the new match. It feels, a bit, like he wants them to dig their own grave.  
  
“You mean being on the winner’s side for once?” Oikawa smirks, “Yeah I could see how that could make a guy happy.”  
  
“I don’t think I notice feeling especially happy at winning anymore,” Ushijima comments, and Oikawa still wishes he would sprain his other hand and fuck off already, “it’s just the expected progression when one team is better than another.”  
  
The rest of them all share a look between one another; some things just never change. While none of them particularly like the boy, Sawamura can appreciate letting the rift grow is just going to make the next three years that much tenser.  
  
“Ushijima,” Sawamura says as he claps him on the back, “let’s tie this match up and then we’ll take you out for a drink to celebrate. That should help remind you.”  


 

* * *

  
Akaashi’s bruise rounds off to a nice purple, in the end. He quite likes the shade, he thinks. Just not on his leg.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot and pretends he doesn’t feel a difference between the two. He waits for the serve, his arms up, hands on the back of his head more out of boredom and convention than anything else. Their new ace is up at the start of the set—Coach wanted them to come out with guns blazing.

He doesn’t feel it this time. The ball goes up, the ace jumps, and Akaashi is unmoved by the whole thing. When Bokuto serves, he knows it the second the ball leaves his hand. This new kid’s got a hard one, but nothing otherwise interesting. There’s nothing there.

 

* * *

Kuroo and Bokuto both jump to block at the same time, but even they know there should be three of them instead of only two. It’s as if the game is all in slow motion, now. Bokuto can see the ball hitting the spiker’s hand, how it compresses then snaps back, how it arcs down the sideline. He yells for Kuroo to move his hand, to try and at least get a one-touch, but there’s no way. It’s a perfect straight right down their blind spot. It’s maddening.

And the match goes to Hosei University.

“Goddamnit,” he swears after the final whistle, wiping the sweat from his face with the bottom of his uniform.

Kuroo punches him in the arm as they head to the backline to do their usual handshakes and bows. “Hey,” he says, still half out of breath, “that was a crazy match, we did good.” It’s the most encouragement he can give; he’s mad about it too.

Bokuto shrugs, “Yeah, but.” Both teams line up in the back of the court, their blue uniforms on one side, Hosei’s orange on the other. As they head around the perimeter and go down the line of handshakes, he locks eyes with the ace on the other side, the one who spiked it through, right in front of him.

“It won’t happen again.”

 

* * *

Once the adrenaline is pumping, Akaashi forgets about his leg (for better and worse). He’s back to diving for shots, the volleyball shorts offering no protection as he scrapes against the slick wood floors. His mind’s in a million places and he knows, goddamnit, they can take this if they keep on them. He, the control tower of their whole operation, runs 1001 scenarios through his mind for how this next rally will go. Who on the other team can he target? Who has no idea what’s coming?

The one good thing about not having a top five spiker on the team anymore is other teams don’t know where to focus their attention. The spikers get marked, but never the setter. The blockers are no-names as far as they’re concerned. The “offense” and “defense” meld together in the minds of their opponents, and they assume weakness in the place of Bokuto. Pity for them, Akaashi thinks just as the whistle sounds. He tosses the ball and takes his approach to serve. Yeah. _Yeah_. This one feels good.

 

* * *

“You’re coming, right?” Bokuto asks as he and Kuroo run onto the train, still in their uniforms, their bloated duffel bags full with water bottles, extra clothes they won’t use, snacks for between games.

“You sure it’s ok if we stop by, right?” Kuroo asks, if only to make sure Bokuto has somewhat thought this through.

“Yeah, it’s not like watching a game he’s already playing is going to mess him up or something,” Bokuto explains as they rush down the steps of the subway station, “it’s fine to check it out.”

“You mean check him out,” Kuroo says under his breath, but Bokuto doesn’t catch it—he’s too busy navigating the brightly colored platforms.

“I can text Shirofuku to check if Nekoma’s still playing too,” he offers.

They slide in just before the doors close, grabbing the first handrails they can. The Sunday night trains are all half-empty, just old granny’s doing the shopping and security guards going to their shifts. “That’s fine, we’ll find out soon enough,” Kuroo shrugs, an easy smile even while Bokuto is clearly anxious, glancing around the train car. The stretching seconds all seem unbearable to him. “Even if we miss it, we can get food or something later with them. Congratulations, and all that.”

“Yeah, but,” Bokuto shakes his head and ends with a lame sigh.

“I get it,” Kuroo nods as the train pulls out from the station, picking up pace as it jostles along the clicking tracks, “I know exactly what you mean.”

 

* * *

Akaashi knows he’s going to make this a quick attack. It’s the match point and they’ve already hit deuce three times now, and he’s done. He can feel the dirt and scrapes he usually wouldn’t notice now biting at his tender thigh. He’s been watching his team get slower as they go into yet another set at the finals. Their jumps aren’t as powerful, their reaction time is getting shoddy. It’s a marathon against gravity and none of them can keep this up much longer.

So the receive comes up, and Akaashi sees Onaga there, already, prepared as a middle blocker should be. He calls out his vice-captain’s name just as his fingers send the ball flying. Onaga jumps with no approach, something only he can do with his height, and—

Onaga dumps the ball. No, he slams it straight at the ground. The three front players of Itachiyama dive down to dig it but—

One punches the ball (again) and it hits Akaashi right in the thigh (again), and this time—

The whistle sounds, covering up the “fuck” he just screamed across the court.

 

 

“Hey hey hey!” is the first thing he hears before the crowd erupts into their indistinguishable noise. His head jerks up, but he can’t find the source in the masses amid all the camera flashes and signs waving. Onaga pats him on the back and ushers him to the backline, offering for him to lean against him for support, but Akaashi’s fine, he swears. It’s clearly just a bruise. Walk it off.

They go through their handshakes and bows and by the time they finish making their rounds on the court, Akaashi is limping. Coach tells him to sit down as they circle up, ready to receive his rousing congratulations before they pack up and go home. They did it. They’re in Nationals again.

“You did good today,” Coach concludes, “now make sure you do all your stretches before we head back.” They all nod, and the mob of them shuffle off to an unoccupied corner of the room to go through their routines. “And Akaashi,” Coach turns to him, “Get some ice on that.” And with that, he heads to the referee to finish getting the scores signed and other important, official coach business.

“Yes, sir,” he sighs, inspecting the growing redness, the bits he know will turn sickly yellow in another week. This is the last thing he needs, the fatigue is mounting, dulling the edges of his senses.

 

“Akaashi.”

He looks up, and of course it’s Bokuto, smiling at him like he just ran all the way through the crowd from the stands, breathless by his own excitement.

“Bokuto,” he tries to hide his smile but he knows the corners of his mouth are betraying him right now. His muscles can’t be trusted.

“That was amazing!” he yells and it echoes halfway across the whole gymnasium. “And at the end! When the ball was all like DUN DUNNN, that was so good!”

“Good match,” Kuroo says as he walks up, Kenma next to him. “How’s your leg doing?”

“About as good as it looks,” he says, wincing as he flexes it.

“Sounds like the word your look for is ‘shit,’ in that case.”

“Oh right,” Bokuto blinks, realizing there are other things going on than a good game of volleyball. “Do you need ice? Do you have to go to the medic?”

“If you could just bring me ice, that’s probably easier,” he says as he stretches his leg out straight. “I know it’s not broken or anything or I wouldn’t be able to put any weight on it at all. It’ll heal just fine on its own.”

Bokuto nods and immediately goes off, single-minded in the task.

“Kuroo, go with him,” Akaashi says as he watches the boy struggle to find the exit. “He’s going to need some help.”

Kuroo snorts but heads along, showing Bokuto that it’s a push door, not a pull.

The roar of the crowd dulls to a hum of white noise and conversation as more people begin to trickle out. The photographers and cameramen leave him be for now, most likely because he is clearly injured. The overhead lights give a sickly glow to the whole gymnasium, the green tinge bouncing off the stark white walls and it’s all too bright for his liking. Kenma sits next to him, deflating on the steel bench too . They’re both very, very tired.

“I’m disappointed we didn’t get to play each other this year,” he says, watching the staff take the nets down. First the pads, falling uselessly to the floor.

“We might still play at Nationals,” Kenma mentions over the sound of tension cords being loosed, one crank at a time.

“True, true,” Akaashi sighs. “Congratulations, then. Another year in a row.”

“Congrats.” He pauses as they settle into an exhausted silence for a moment. “It’s the last year.”

“Did you think we’d all make it this far? I know no one expects to lose going into these things, but every training camp is different. We’ve seen a lot of each other’s teams.”

“I thought I was going to quit years ago,” he says as a plain statement of fact.

“So does it matter that it’s the last year, finally?”

Kenma glances at him for a split second, but takes his time answering. The net falls limp on the floor. The staff slowly coils it up, the fabric snaking around on the hardwood before bundling into the bag. “I guess so.”

 

Kuroo and Bokuto return, ice in hand. Kenma and Kuroo peel off, heading back home, since it is so late and they just got through their own matches. Akaashi watches Kuroo sling his arm over Kenma’s shoulder and makes a mental note to ask later.

“Hey, can I--?” Bokuto asks, standing over him with a wet cloth in his hand.

“Yeah, go for it,” Akaashi says, really not giving any shits at this point. He knows he needs to study after, mid-November is officially crunch time before the January examination period, but he’d rather disintegrate into a million tiny pieces than walk home alone with his leg like this.

Bokuto kneels down, setting the ice and saran wrap aside for now, and gently cleans the dirt and scratches that dot his leg. Akaashi tries, desperately, not to blush or giggle or anything embarrassing as Bokuto holds his thigh, his thumb grazing just under the thin athletic fabric of the already criminally short shorts. This must be a cruel cosmic joke, he imagines. He’d laugh out loud if he wasn’t so tired. Of course his bruise is there of all places. A few more centimeters and Bokuto’s fingers would be on his bare ass, and god hasn’t that been the fucking dream for years now.

“How did your match go?” Akaashi’s voice sounds surprisingly normal, and he’s proud of how he’s kept his cool.

“We lost the last one, came in second,” Bokuto explains as he finishes his careful work. “It was really cool though, Coach put all of us in at one point or another. There were five freshmen on in the second match.”

“That’s good,” and he’s relieved some of that hard work actually paid off. “That’s really good.”

“Yeah!” His smiles are always too genuine. How he’s managed to avoid the cynicism usually instilled over almost ten years of volleyball, Akaashi will never know. “Can you hold this?”

He wraps the ice then wraps it to the leg, practiced work they both know how to do, but Akaashi would be lying if he said he didn’t like this attention. He watches the cameras out of the corner of his eye, shy of their lenses already but more self-conscious in this position. He feels the sweat prickling the back of his neck. He imagines the bit of color that won’t drain from his cheeks.

“Are you heading back home after this?” He asks, still trying to plan how to make it home with the least amount of sad limping.

“Are you?” Bokuto asks back, sitting on the ground, clearly in no rush to leave.

“I suppose I should,” Akaashi frowns, looking up at the ceiling. He keeps trying to rally but his heart isn’t in the effort.

“Can you make it?”

Akaashi groans.

“Keiji?”

He looks at him, both endeared and annoyed. He doesn’t get to call him that now, not with his hand just up his shorts like that. Not when there’s nothing more to come of it.

“You get this look on your face when you’re worried,” he’s being rude for his own sanity, if this keeps up he’ll feel as raw as his leg, “it’s like you’re kind of surprised by everything. It’s innocent like a little kid. Did you know that?” He's the one being childish here, he knows. He feels his filter slipping and he's upset at himself all over again for it.

Bokuto doesn’t respond, just keeps giving him that same dumb look and suddenly, this isn’t fun anymore.

“I don’t really want to go anywhere right now,” he stands, “but if I have to, the train’s probably easiest.” He hides the pain when he puts weight on his leg, when the muscle contracts, bundling up into its own blood. “It’s two blocks to the station and then two blocks once I get off. It takes longer, but it’s mostly sitting, I think I’ll make it.”

“I can go with you,” Bokuto offers quickly, standing to attention.

“You don’t—“

“Let me grab your bag,” he says before Akaashi can protest, scrambling to make himself useful. “Of all the times you’ve saved my ass, let me help this time,” he adds quietly as he slings it over his shoulder, the pack mule for them both.  

Akaashi stares at him. After months of Akaashi’s bullshit, Bokuto is still too much _everything_ for his own good. “Fine,” he mutters, and texts his mom to make dinner for one more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing action is difficult to begin with, it's hard to strike a balance in the description. add in all the rules of volleyball, and well.  
> meh i didn't enjoy this chapter. but it's an important transition. prepare for fluff next time. 
> 
> edit: this is the first time i've ever sent it to a friend to edit and i think i took out all her jokes but idk man idk cry


	5. Burst

It’s sickeningly familiar. Akaashi’s had an odd sense of déjà vu from the second Bokuto walked in the door to his house. And now, showering up after a game, sitting in pajamas in his room around the kotatsu, papers spread everywhere, how they devour every surface like a scaled animal—it’s too much. Bokuto is curled underneath, poking his knee every 20 minutes to remind him to take the ice off his thigh or put it back on. He knows Bokuto’s just looking for an excuse to not do his work, but he appreciates it nonetheless. He tries to stay focused on his own shit, but it’s a lost cause. He picks at the cooling leftover curry, almost too tired to eat it.        
  
“Akaashi, have you read this before?”  
  
“What is it?” he asks, readjusting the baggy sweater he’s had for years now. He pulls the stretched out neckline back up his shoulder, absentmindedly always adjusting.  
  
Bokuto has to look at the spine of the book to remember, “Pride and Prejudice.”  
  
“Yes,” he says simply.  
  
“Can you give me like, the short version?”  
  
“I need to do my own work, Bokuto,” he reminds him.  
  
“It’ll take five minutes,” he whines, stretching his arms out as he lies on the floor.  
  
He stretches his neck over to see where he’s at in the plot, “You’ve literally got 100 more pages then you’re done.”  
  
“And that’s 100 too many,” Bokuto pouts, shimmying under the table until his head is right by Akaashi’s knee. He’s trying to get the maximum effect out of his puppy eyes.  
  
“I’m about to fall asleep sitting up, so how about you finish your pages and I’ll finish these two worksheets and then we can both go to bed,” he bargains rubbing his eyes under his reading glasses.  
  
“Fine,” Bokuto hums, satisfied for now though he doesn’t move.  
  
“Watch out, I might hit your head with my knee if you stay like that.”  
  
“So don’t,” he says simply.  
  
Akaashi huffs, but returns to work. He knows Bokuto is watching him, but it is Sunday, after all. He has to at least pretend to be productive. The numbers on the page still blur a bit, a headache threatening the bridge of his skull, and the dull ache in his thigh.  
  
A few minutes later, Bokuto sits up, moving to the wrapping on Akaashi’s leg. “Twenty minutes,” he reminds him as he gently pulls the ice off. Akaashi freezes up under his careful touch. Bokuto’s head is right there, inspecting how it’s taking to the cold, whether the swelling changed. The blood has settled, staining his upper thigh in a thick indigo. His right hand is laid against his inner thigh, steadying it, and Akaashi has to avert his eyes not to turn bright red right there. His left hand gently traces the outline of the mark, checking it isn’t burned from the ice, Akaashi imagines. Bokuto’s fingertips brush a scrape at the edge of the bruise (that’s what he gets from diving on the floor so much) and Akaashi can’t help but wince.  
  
“Sorry,” he says quietly, snapped out of whatever it was he was thinking.  
      
“No, you’re fine. It’s,” he breathes through his nose, “it’s fine.”  
  
Bokuto moves to lie back down, but Akaashi puts his hand on his shoulder, stopping him for a moment. He looks up, and Akaashi’s caught in those gold eyes like a fucking romantic comedy. He doesn’t know what to do now. Everything’s stopped.  
  
  
“I’m thinking of going into medicine,” he blurts out.  
  
Bokuto blinks. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah. Sports medicine,” he says.  
  
“Are you going to try to go to Todai for it? Or somewhere more like for medicine specifically?”  
  
“No, Todai’s the plan. That’s what I want.”  
  
Bokuto smirks and Akaashi can’t remember the last time he’s seen that. “In that case, I’m probably being distracting,” he says, lying back down. He points to himself, “100 pages,” then at Akaashi, “two worksheets. Then bed. I’m so tired I can’t take it.”  
  
Akaashi nods, “Bed.” Strictly platonic bed. Sleeping in the same room, but not together. Bed.  
  
  
“Hey, um. Bokuto,” he says a second later, but the other boy’s already asleep, lightly snoring like a nerd, his head leaning a bit on Akaashi’s thigh.  
  
He sighs. Whatever it was, the moment is gone. When Bokuto falls asleep, he’s asleep for good. There is no such thing as a ‘quick nap,’ in his book—minimum three hours. Usually more like five. It’s a lost cause already. He watches him, for a minute or two, placing a hand on his cheek for the hell of it—to tempt fate or see how much he can tempt himself. Slowly, he leans down over the other boy till their lips just graze, his breath is colder than Akaashi expected, but then again he’s not sure what he expected.  
  
Fuck it. _Fuck it._ He’s tired of his own bullshit. He closes the gap between of them, a slow press of lips. His heart is racing in his ears even though it’s nothing special, nothing special at all. Bokuto’s lips feel like lips.  He knows, but still. A second later, he sits up straight, mentally files it away under “good shit” and finishes his work. When he finally goes to flick off the lights, he sees a flutter of owl wings outside his window and can’t help but smile.  
  
  
He falls asleep under the kotatsu, which isn’t good for his thigh but this way, he wakes up next to Bokuto right as the lazy sunrise is coming through his window. The dawn makes his hair look even more silver in the pale light of early winter.  
  
“Koutarou.”  
  
One eye blinks open, then the other. It takes him a minute, but he smiles at Akaashi, his voice still thick with sleep but Akaashi likes the low rumble of his name in Bokuto’s mouth, “Keiji.”  
  
“I have to get ready for school,” he whispers, warm under the table, happy to be curled toward the other boy.  
  
Bokuto hums in consideration, then closes his eyes again. “You know, you always do this thing with your face, when you’re overthinking things.”  
  
“What? What is it?”  
  
“You’re doing it now and it’s not even really morning yet, Keiji.”  
  
“What do I do?”  
  
There’s a loud knock on his door, more like pounding against it, and his sister calls out from the other side, “Are you dead or something? It’s already 7:00.” She heads down the hall before he can answer, her school shoes clicking down the stairs to the kitchen.  
  
“I guess I should prove I’m still alive, huh?”  
  
Bokuto nods, finally sitting up and rubbing his eyes to try and will himself awake. “I don’t have class until 10, but I should probably head home and change and all.”  
  
“Makes sense,” Akaashi agrees, testing his leg out as he stands.  
  
“How’s it doing?” he asks as he looks it up and down, and Akaashi feels a bit self-conscious under his scrutiny.  
  
“Stiff, mostly from being under the heater all night. But I can deal with it,” he shrugs. “If you get dressed and all now, we can head out together and I’ll walk you to the train.”  
  
“Great,” he agrees, picking himself up off the floor.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Their texting picks up again after that, and Akaashi is thankful for it. He’s twice as busy and twice as tempted to go to his apartment, now, but his sights are set on the Spring Tournament and his exams right after.  
  
_Bokuto: shit shit sorry_  
_Bokuto: exams are literally the day after_  
_Bokuto: ahhhhhhhh well all watch the livestream_  
_Bokuto: SORRRYYYYY!!!!_  
  
It’s fine, he tells himself. He wasn’t expecting anything in the first place, nothing to be disappointed about.  
  
  
Of course, he’s still worried they don’t have Bokuto on the team anymore. The drop in pure firepower would set anyone on edge, but they’ve been dealing with it so far that, just maybe, he lets himself believe they might have a chance.  
  
As the winter ramps up, dark clouds brewing becomes the norm. The sky turns a perennial grey as they sit in front of the sun, fat with snow. He finishes his end of term exams without a hitch, and again the winter break rolls through. This year, through an odd glitch of scheduling, the Spring Tournament is in January the week before his university entrance exams. Usually he would use this break to stew in his own inertia, but now he practices, early mornings and late nights as he keeps up with his studying. His bruise takes its time healing, and he blames it on the lack of sleep. The blackened spot lingers for weeks, before it finally turns the yellow he was expecting and fades away. He’s tired of it, the clockwork gears always clicking together, the treadmill he can’t get off, even to take care of himself.  
  
_Kuroo: lol studying for entrance exams was shitty yea_  
_Kuroo: i blocked it out of my memory basically_  
_Kuroo: it’ll be over soon tho_  
  
_me: That’s the scary part_  
  
For New Years, he knows it’s a lost cause trying to meet up with Bokuto or Kuroo or anyone else. Bokuto said he’d love to, but he and the others were invited to four different parties. There’s no way any of them going to be alive the next day. Instead he makes plans with Kenma; it’s not a tradition by any means, but he appreciates the familiarity of two years in a row.  
  
“Do you mind if we go to Yushima Tenjin?” He asks as they meet on the street corner, walking to the station. “I’m kind of nervous about exams and all.”  
  
“Will it be as crowded as last year?”  
  
“It won’t be like the Meiji shrine, no.”  
  
“No, I mean when I went with Kuroo after to Yushima.”  
  
“Oh, maybe,” he concedes, a bit surprised, I don’t think it’ll be that bad at this time though.” They’re heading out early, the sun is still just a timid bud on the horizon. “How are things with Kuroo by the way?”  
  
Kenma shrugs. Since he didn’t ignore the question, Akaashi figures it’s okay to ask more.  
  
“I mean he told me about Tsukishima and the Summer Training Camp, but I don’t know much about his life otherwise.”  
  
“We hang out sometimes,” Kenma answers in an even tone. “I was at his apartment last week.”  
  
“Are you two--? I mean, have you--?”  
  
“I don’t think I want to,” he says looking up at the sky, eyes focused on the passing clouds as he thinks. “Which we kind of talked about. He wanted to and I didn’t, so.”  
  
“So you talked,” Akaashi repeats, trying not to probe even as his curiosity gets the better of him. Wanted to what?  
  
“He invited me out to a couple parties last night but I couldn’t make it out that late.”  
  
“So he asked you out?” Akaashi tries to confirm, and Kenma only shrugs.  
  
“Then, are you two a thing?” He asks as they descend into the open concrete mouth of the subway station.  
  
“We’re something, but he’s not my boyfriend.”  
  
Akaash just sighs. If this is what relationships are like at university, a series of shrugs and half-hearted hook ups, he might be better off single.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
During the whole Spring Tournament, there’s a tickle at the back of his throat and he knows it’s going to bloom into something atrocious. He has no idea where he got it, must be something that took its time incubating, he guesses. His whole winter break has been a clockwork routine: volleyball, study, volleyball, study—he has no idea where he could’ve picked it up in that time. He double-fists fruit and water between every match, guzzling down any non-drowsy cold medicine he can find. If this was just the tournament, he could ignore it. But his health matters next week, too. He can’t afford to slip up here.  
  
They come in fourth, overall. Down from last year, but he’ll take it.    
  


* * * * *

  
  
Entrance exams pounce on him so fast, he almost gets whiplash. Underneath the harsh overhead lights, he thanks god for Dayquil. His hands are shaking as he leafs through his booklet, making mental notes of the easiest and hardest questions before he gets to it. Fidgeting with his pencil, Akaashi is scared but prepared. He knows he knows this. He knows.  
  
  
He, like thousands of other high school students today, copied his answers on his scrap sheet to check against the posted results. He sits on a bench just outside, picking at his nails for the hell of it, as he waits for the proctor to come out with his stack of papers and pushpins. He hears a dull thump next to him, a weight dropped into the half-frozen grass. He looks over and sees a small shape, dark and blob-like. He leans further over the rail of the bench, trying to get a good look—  
  
It’s a dead scops owl. Unnaturally black, the color of his old bruise.  
  
“Shit,” he frowns. That can’t be a good omen.  
  
He says a quiet prayer for the owl and hope that evens out the cosmos for now.  
  
  
  
  
By some divine grace (it must have been the owl prayer, it’s the only explanation), his scores are just high enough to put him over the edge. With the tight margin though it really could go either way. A month later, he is waiting by his mailbox like an asshole. His phone is off, so he won’t embarrass himself with anxious texts he’ll regret after the panic attack finishes up. The mailman that day gives him a knowing wink and a single letter from the University of Tokyo. He resists the urge to have a heart attack, at least until he gets back into the house.  
  
He puts the letter on the kitchen table and stares at it, trying to rally up the courage to open the damn thing.  
  
He makes tea instead.  
  
He comes back to it seven minutes later. Its a crisp white, overly official, and looks out of place on the old wood of his kitchen table.  
  
He cleans his room instead.  
  
Once more, he comes back to it. The plastic window in the middle of the envelope feels mocking. It shows how formulaic these letters are to the university—it must be just another mailing list of rejections.  
  
He goes for a walk instead.  
  
  
By the time he makes it home, the sun has waned, gone to bed behind the rows of other houses in his sleepy suburb. He stands on the sidewalk, indecisive for no good reason. He knows the letter will still be there. He also knows, by the cars now gathered in the driveway, there is no way his parents haven’t already opened it. He’s being dumb about this. He turns on his phone, going to text Bokuto or Kuroo or someone for one last pep talk, and it immediately pings as soon as the screen flashes on. His inbox is flooded with messages of encouragement, preemptive offers to get plastered if it’s bad news, congratulations assuming it’s good. He can’t say his heart isn’t warmed.  
  
He looks back at his door, trying to steal himself once more, and he sees a small owl up in the tree by the driveway. The dark thing stares, and he stares back.  
  
Then, in a flash, it’s gone, fluttering off to less anxious households and less stressful trees.  
  
“Right. Owls are lucky, right?” he’s not sure if he’s remembering or trying to convince himself.  
  
With one last deep breath, he steps inside.  
  
  
  
  
_Bokuto: AHHHHHHHHHHHH CONGRATULATIONS_  
  
_Kuroo: lololol knew you had it in you_  
  
_Kenma: good job_  
  
_Sawamura: Great news! :)_  
  
_Oikawa: lol see ya next year ;p_  
  
_Shirofuku: yayayay! you’re staying in tokyo!!!_  
  


* * * * *

  
  
_Kuroo: hey now that ur not dying by textbook_  
_Kuroo: some friends are getting together at Ushiwaka’s place next Saturday_  
_Kuroo: see ya there_  
  
  
When he shows up at the house, he can hardly believe it. Ushiwaka (as Akaashi, too, has taken to calling him now) rents a house with some other players from the Youth Japan team who all ended up in Tokyo. It’s a big place, and in another life, it might’ve been a ghost house, its old architecture looking out of place on the Tokyo street. But by the wide porch and the bit of lawn, it looks like they take good care of it (he also notices their parents must be paying for it). Kuroo and Bokuto, through some miracle, convinced him to hold the party here. The dimmed lights still push through the blinds, the strobe sending its colors out against the windows. It’s eerily quiet on the outside, he can’t hear any music above the low chatter of the street, but he knows that doesn’t mean shit once he gets in there. Akaashi’s still not 100%, the cold he can’t quite shake isn’t going quietly, so he makes a pact with himself to keep it together, tonight. No one wants to be bent over a toilet, sick in more ways than one.  
  
He tries to shake any bad memories from the last party like this he went to, and knocks.  
  
  
He’s a good ways sunk, and it’s all Oikawa’s doing. He promised it’d be fine, and then all he’s done is pour strong drinks into the nondescript cups, pushing them Akaashi’s way. They’re gathered at the “bar,” a table pressed against a bookcase, lined with liquors and budget soda from the convenience store down the street. Kuroo, miraculously, supplied the keg everyone takes turns at in the kitchen. It feels like one of those trashy American films about frats and college but fuck it. Despite better judgment, he can’t feel the usual bite of the alcohol in his cup, so he downs it all at once.  
  
“That’s the spirit,” Oikawa smiles at him, pouring again.  
  
“I’m not looking to get trashed tonight,” he says, more to remind himself.  
  
“Whatever you say,” he says with a wink, putting another cup in his hand.  
  
  
He meanders around the house, trying to get a mental layout while he’s still halfway sober. Boys sporting sweatshirts from different schools, “Tsukuba”, “Hosei”, other school colors he can’t quite place, all dot the different rooms. Underneath him, he can feel the bass of the stereo vibrating its way through the floorboards and he guesses the real party must be in the basement. It’s unclear, under the haze of the half-lighting and liquor.  
  
He finds himself in the kitchen, Kuroo minding the keg for now, his usual bedhead matted with sweat as he sits on the counter. He flaps his damp black tank to get some airflow, a bottle of water in another hand.  
  
“Where did you just come from?” Akaashi asks, leaning up next to him. People shuffle in and out of the kitchen, sometimes stumbling up to the keg to fill another shitty cup. Even this part of the house has a warm glow, fairy lights strung up around the pot rack that hangs above the island, almost innocent like some cuteass magic’s gonna go down in a second. There’s no such thing as a ‘breather,’ the party bleeds into every room and none of it looks real.  
  
“Downstairs,” he says in a huff, still catching his breath. “It’s hot as balls, but worth it.”  
  
“Didn’t think you’d be the one who needed a breather,” he mentions off-handedly, taking another sip from his cup.  
  
“Didn’t think you’d be one to show in the first place,” he smiles.  
  
“You said it was just some friends hanging out.”  
  
“You should know that’s code for a rager by now,” Kuroo laughs. His moves are languid, an easy fluidity as he drinks his water that Akaashi can’t help but watch when his brain thick and slow from the booze.  
  
Kuroo catches him staring and bursts out laughing.  
  
“I can’t fucking deal with you,” he smiles as Akaashi immediately looks away. “You’re too cute for your own good, pretty boy.”  
  
Akaashi feels his face turning red and he’s not sure if it’s the gin hitting him or if he is that mortified. “I’m not pretty,” he mutters, half into his cup.  
  
“Hah! See, that’s the one difference between me and you, Akaashi,” Kuroo says, sipping more water in between, “we’re both calculating assholes, the difference is I know how great my ass is and you still have no idea what your cheekbones look like even though you see yourself in the mirror every damn day.”  
  
Akaashi almost chokes on his drink. Kuroo sits unphased.  
  
“Is this like,” he tries to change the subject, terribly awkward, “is this like for all the Tokyo volleyball teams?”  
  
“Yeah,” Kuroo shrugs. “Even fucking Hosei showed, I don’t know who invited them though.”  
  
“Is Ushiwaka seriously okay with this?”  
  
“Is he okay with what?” Sawamura asks as he comes up to them and leans against the adjacent counter.  
  
“This,” Akaashi gestures to all the nonsense: a couple grinds against the opposite wall without music. A mix of men and women, all different universities as far as he can tell, stand just beyond them, as one of the girls tries to explain Beer Pong to the drunk masses. The ground continues to thump in time, its music escalating whenever someone emerges from the basement stairwell.  
  
“After a couple of beers, he complained less, at least,” Kuroo chuckles.  
  
Sawamura shrugs, “He hasn’t shut it down yet, so I’ll take that as a sign it’s okay for now. When I saw him downstairs, he seemed to be enjoying himself.”  
  
“If he and Oikawa haven’t hooked up by 1AM, I will chug whatever is left in this keg,” Kuroo declares. “I’m calling it, those two are a mess and they’re going to have to fuck to straighten themselves out again.”  
  
“There is no way in hell that is happening,” Sawamura says, shaking his head. “Don’t make dumb bets that are going to land you in the hospital.”  
  
“I only make bets I know I’m going to win.”  
  
“Did one of them say something about it?” Akaashi asks, more of a curious observer than anything else.  
  
“They’ve been eye-fucking for months,” Kuroo explains.  
  
“Most people would call that death glares,” Sawamura corrects.  
  
“You don’t have the same sixth sense for these things I do,” Kuroo says. “I know exactly who’s getting laid tonight, it’s my gift.”  
  
“You’re full of shit, that’s what I know exactly,” Akaashi says as he finishes off the rest of his cup.  
  
“Come on,” Kuroo hops off the counter, grabbing Akaashi by the wrist. “We’re going to get you another drink, a strong one, and then we’re dealing with your shit.”  
  
“I’m not trying to get trashed tonight,” he repeats again as he tugged along to the makeshift bar once more.  
  
“I’m not trying to get you trashed, just trying to get you laid.”  
  
  
  
  
Kuroo lets him take his time with it, but he waits until he’s at least halfway done, with what is his third mixed drink in an hour, before he takes him down downstairs.  Even as they descend the tight staircase, the walls are awash with the red of the strobe, the bass pounds all the way through his skull. The floor of the expansive basement is unfinished, just dull concrete and dirt. Dark pipes wind their way over the sea of bobbing heads as one boy plays DJ next to a whole speaker set up. There’s a low roar of voices straining over the sound, but really nothing can drown the music out at this point. Consider him overwhelmed.  
  
Kuroo’s still got him by the wrist, but it’s not a hostile grip, just keeping him close amidst the jostle of other bodies. He understands, now, what he meant by the heat. Already, he feels the humidity curling his hair more than usual. Akaashi’s tall, but not tall. At a volleyball party, he’s below average and can barely see over the shoulders that crowd the dingy nooks and crannies of Ushiwaka’s basement. The strobe casts ruddy shadows making it look all the more secret and unreal.     
  
“Don’t fuck it up,” Kuroo says and pushes him off, unceremoniously, before disappearing back into the sea of bodies.  
  
All of a sudden he’s left to his own devices, not prepared for the turbulence of the dance floor. He finishes his drink off fast, just so he won’t spill it all over himself. He tries to push through so he can reach the wall, just so he can get his shit together.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
He turns around and Bokuto’s behind him, miraculously there.  
  
“Fucking thank god,” he swears, grabbing onto the other boy’s arm so they don’t get pushed away with the tides of rhythm and bass. His head is swimming, everything a slow red haze, but at least now he knows he’s not in it alone.  
  
The song switches up and Bokuto says something he can’t make out over the rattle of the subwoofers. Akaashi nods along because he trusts him, so sure. _Sure._  
  
Bokuto’s smile switches to something more bashful and before Akaashi can process it, he’s being pulled closer. Their bodies slot together and he drops the dumb plastic cup uselessly. His arms find their way to Bokuto’s back, feeling the taut muscles through the thin fabric of the tank top, and he thinks he could die like this. He just might at this rate. Bokuto’s breath is at his neck, it feels cool against the oppressive heat bouncing around the room, and he turns his head towards it.  
  
And then they’re kissing.  
  
There’s a wet press of lips against his, and he closes his eyes, drawn into the sensation. He has no idea how the mechanics of the whole thing works, so he tries to just copy what Bokuto does. He nips back, he opens his mouth on cue, he enjoys himself. Against the slow rumble of treble and bass, Bokuto’s leg pressed between his is doing something dangerous, and he thinks he could die like this. He just might.  
  
  
  
“I told him I was getting water,” he sighs, thankful to have some actual water, his face still bright red from the booze and the heat of before.  
  
“I feel so proud,” Kuroo smiles, nursing a beer as they sit on the porch of the house, getting some fresh, crisp air. It’s a mild night for late January. They still have their coats on, unzipped and loose, but he still feels so warm. “Took you fuckers long enough, goddamn I was afraid for a second you’d chicken out.”  
  
“Yeah well,” Akaashi sighs, watching the flickering street lights, the storefronts turning off their fluorescent windows one by one just down the street, “we were both wasted so I don’t know what it counts for.”  
  
“I’m about to chuck this beer at your stupid head. If you think Bokuto kissed you just because you all were drunk, I am actually going to commit murder right now.”  
  
Akaashi knows. He knows what it all means, but he’s still not sure how to deal with it. “So are we dating now?”  
  
“I dunno, are you?”  
  
“I want to,” he says after another sip.  
  
“Does he?”  
  
Akaashi sighs, his breath pooling into smoke in front of his very eyes. “I dunno.”  
  
“This reminds me of a particularly poetic moment last year, so I’ll give you the same advice I got then:” Kuroo turns to him, poking him in the shoulder, “Ask him.”  
  
Akaashi groans from the back of his throat, but he can’t argue with that.  
      
“I think I have a fever,” he says after another second.  
  
“Nah, that’s just what being horny feels like.”  
  
“No,” he presses his hand against his own forehead, “No I actually have a fever.”  
  
“Seriously?” Kuroo looks over as Akaashi stands, cursing his shit luck under his breath.  
  
“I should get home while I still can,” he says as he zips his jacket up and checks his pockets for all his shit, “if this gets worse, I don’t want to be sick at someone else’s place.”  
  
Kuroo nods, “Text me when you get home then.”  
  
He offers a wave then heads into the night, tabling his usual overthinking for another time.  
  
  
  
_me: sorry I left_  
_me: got sick (flu I think) and headed home_  
  
_me: wanna go out some time?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that wraps up part 2. lolololol akaashi's cursed.
> 
> ugh i have too many thoughts. i need a bit of a break before i get into part 3. there's so many little threads that have to tie together very quickly, and then unravel all over again. don't blink.


End file.
